The Peregrine Omnibus Volume One (53 page)

To her credit, the Domino Lady launched into the fray the second after the Peregrine chose to do so. Ellen was a woman of action, who found her grief and pain over her father’s death vanquished only through the combating of other evil men like the ones who had torn apart her life forever. As such, she felt no trepidation about the coming bloodshed: rather, a part of her thrilled as her small pistol discharged its lead-lined capsules of death at her opponents.

Jakob stepped back, eyes narrowing as the vigilantes mowed down his compatriots. It was over in a shockingly brief amount of time, a strange silence falling over the hallway in the aftermath.

McKenzie burst out from his own torture chamber and a few brave—or stupid—customers of Bloodwerks did the same from their own rooms.

Invisible to all but Jakob and the Peregrine, the spent souls of the Old Ones hovered in the air, looking painfully contorted with no physical bodies to occupy. They shimmered and faded back into whatever hellish region they called a prison.

Jakob glanced towards the door leading back into the club but the Domino Lady moved to block his path. She looked almost anxious for him to attempt an escape, so she’d have an excuse to shoot him.

“It’s over,” the Peregrine warned as McKenzie came to his side.

“What makes you think so?” the demon asked. “You are three human beings, still trapped in a building filled to the brim with entities like myself… not to mention our human servants. You are still every bit as trapped as you were two minutes ago.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” the Peregrine replied. “If you think I wouldn’t have taken some precautions before entering this place, you’re insane. I have you right where I want you.”

“Please… tell me how this is so.” Jakob looked terribly amused by the Peregrine’s confidence.

“Back at our hotel, I had a vision of one of your rooms with the torture equipment. I knew right then and there that we needed to stop Bloodwerks and we needed to stop them tonight. So I put in a few calls and convinced a friend of mine to arrive outside a few minutes after nine. You might have heard of him—Leonid Kaslov?”

Jakob’s sneer faltered somewhat. Kaslov was a ‘superman’ of sorts, hailed throughout the world as a mental and physical giant. “I’m not frightened by the Russian.”

“I think differently. I can see it in your eyes.” The Peregrine advanced towards him, locking his gaze upon Jakob’s. “Any minute now, these doors are going to come crashing down and then I swear before God in heaven that none of us will rest until each and every one of you demons has been sent back to hell!”

Jakob’s stolen eyes registered true terror for a moment and he looked like a frightened rabbit about to bolt for cover. At the last moment, however, he felt something cold and hard press against his temple. He turned his eyes briefly in the direction of the Domino Lady, who was biting her lower lip and in the process of pulling her finger against the trigger of her pistol.

“You helped kill my friend, you bastard.”

Jakob started to speak but there was no time for him to do so. The powerful bullet pierced one side of his skull, slicing through the human brain he occupied and then passed out the other side with a wet splooching sound.

McKenzie whistled as Jakob’s body hit the floor. “Damn… didn’t see that one coming.”

“He deserved worse,” Ellen whispered, beginning to shake a bit as the emotions hit her.

Max moved quickly, grabbing hold of a chair lying in the corner and pushing it hard against the door leading into the club. “We don’t have much time. We need to find another way out of here and take as many of these innocents with us as possible.”

“Were you telling the truth about Kaslov?” McKenzie asked. “Is he really here?”

“No. I was bluffing. I could tell that Ellen had something in mind and figured I’d give her time to get it implemented.”

“Thank you, Max,” Ellen said, her expression earnest.

“Don’t thank me now—we’re not out of here alive yet.”

CHAPTER VIII

In the Flames

The Peregrine stood atop a building, located just over a block away from the burning ruin that had once been the Bloodwerks club. The trio’s flight from the scene of so many murders had been surprisingly simple, aided by the fact that many of the Old Ones had seemed to sense the death of their leader and escaped themselves. A few had managed to put up brief fights but for the most part, the Peregrine and his companions had faced little resistance in getting the prisoners to safety.

Down below, McKenzie was giving each man and woman enough money to pay their way out of the country, along with fake identifications that would smooth the way for them.

In the flames of Bloodwerks, Max thought he saw the spirits of the demons capering about like maddened lovers at an orgy.

The soft rustle of fabric against feminine flesh made him look to his left, where the Domino Lady was ascending a fire escape to join him.

“I’m sorry we weren’t able to save your friend,” he said to her.

“I knew she was dead, Max. The odds were stacked against her still being alive.” Ellen reached up and removed her mask, revealing red-rimmed eyes that shone with moisture. “Do you think we’ll ever catch those who got away?”

“I’m going to call Leopold and ask him to make this the next item for the adventurer’s club to look into.” Max looked up into the nighttime sky, where the stars seemed to wink playfully at him. “There’s so many dangers out there, beyond the normal. Makes me wonder if I did the right thing bringing a little boy into this world.”

“You’re a father?”

Max smiled. “Come back with us to Atlanta. Meet Evelyn and William. You’d like them.”

“Okay,’ she agreed. “But only for a little while.” Her eyes darkened at a sudden thought. “Eventually I have to return to California and pay a visit to Carl Klemons. He’s as much to blame for Sally’s death as Jakob was, maybe more so. She trusted him.” Ellen looked Max in the face. “Do you think we’ll ever make the world safe?
Really
safe? For people like Sally and your son?”

Max took her hand and squeezed it in friendship. “We have to keep trying. If we don’t… who will?”

“Good point,” she laughed. “Good point.”

THE END

THE GORGON CONSPIRACY

An adventure starring the Peregrine

By Barry Reese

CHAPTER I

Sculpted in Death

Early November, 1940—Los Angeles, California

The statue was so unusual that Joseph Nelson could scarcely tear his eyes away from it. Unlike most statues, this one bore an expression that was frozen in pure terror. The eyes were widened and Joseph could not help but stare at them. They seemed to carry so much emotion…

The pose was extremely natural, as if the figure depicted had been caught in mid-run. They were half-turned, one arm raised in self-defense from some unseen threat. The fabric of the clothing was captured in supreme detail, every fold accurately displayed in a manner that Joseph had never seen before.

Even more arresting was the subject of the sculpture… a young man, no more than twenty years old, with a handsome but not overly striking face and form. He was dressed in slacks and a button-up shirt. He looked like a young man on his way to work or perhaps a casual affair with a pretty girl in town. Joseph wondered at the purpose for choosing such an ordinary subject for the work.

Most remarkable of all was that the statue appeared to have been carved out of some exotic stone the likes of which Joseph couldn’t quite identify. It was akin to obsidian, which was very unusual for a sculpture.

Joseph stepped back from the statue as the workmen continued to free it from the wooden box in which it was packed. He reached down without looking to his desk and plucked up a pipe. After stuffing it full of tobacco, he lit it and began puffing away in earnest. He was a dried-up looking man in his mid forties, his hair turned platinum from years of exposure to the sun. His eyebrows were a bit bushy and hung over his eyes, giving him a wild appearance that belied his multiple college degrees and keen intelligence.

“Where did this come from?” he asked one of the museum workers.

The man stopped in place, looking around the exterior of the large crate. He pulled free a small envelope and extended it to Joseph, who took it with thanks. Inside was a small card marked with impeccably good penmanship. It read:
Examine the small discs taped to the back of the statue. You will find them interesting.
There was no name attached and Joseph was not able to place the handwriting.

The workmen had finished unboxing the statue by now and were packing up the crate to take it with them. Joseph held up a hand. “Who told you to deliver this piece to me?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” the leader of the men responded. “We were just told to deliver this to the office of Joseph Nelson at the Los Angeles Museum.”

Joseph tipped the men for their service and moved to stand behind his desk, which was piled high with reports and papers. The statue continued to beckon to him and suddenly he remembered what the note had said—that there were discs taped to the back of the artwork.

Buzzing with excitement, Joseph returned to the statue and started to look at its back but something caught his eye before he made it that far. He noticed tiny hairs all along the back of the subject’s neck, along with individual eyelashes on its face. There was even a mole on the subject’s neck… such details were astonishing and virtually impossible for even the most talented of sculptors to mimic.

A sudden chill went through Joseph and his heart began to pound in his chest. A sudden burst of unreality took root in his brain: was this, somehow, a
real person
?

Joseph forced himself to look down at the back of the statue. There were two circular objects, both black as night, taped to the statue. He removed them quickly and stared at the discs, seeing himself reflected back in their dark surfaces. For a moment, he felt like he was falling into a dark pit, sucked right into the void of the discs.

And then a peculiar prickling sensation began to form on his skin. He was unable to move, trapped in place as a dark material much like that covering the statue began to appear on his skin, snaking its way across him from head to toe.

A single tear began to trickle down from Joseph’s eye, but it too became frozen forever as the black mineral-like substance overtook it. His last living thought was of a jungle in the Amazon, a jungle where he had allowed a tremendous sin to occur.

This is God’s judgment
, he thought to himself.
I’m going straight to Hell.

Within five minutes, the museum’s curator was dead, his visage captured in a remarkable work of art.

CHAPTER II

Death Comes in Large Packages

Late November

It was an unusually cold November in Atlanta and the Peregrine was dressed warmly as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop, his coat billowing out behind him like wings on a bird. The man he was pursuing was walking on foot down below, unaware that the mysterious Peregrine was hot on his tail. Floyd “Itchy Fingers” Malone had come down South for the winter, hoping to avoid over a dozen counts of murder and rape in Chicago. He’d been in town for just over a week but hadn’t been able to keep his nose out of trouble. Three days ago, he’d left a pretty young coed with a broken nose and violated virtue.

Max Davies was the man behind the bird-like mask of the Peregrine and he’d seen more than his share of crooked men in his lifetime. At the age of eight, he’d witnessed his own father’s death at the hands of criminals, a terrifying scene that had eventually led Max into a career as a vigilante, hunting down those who would steal away the innocence of others.

Handsome and witty, Max was the toast of the town as a well-to-do socialite. His marriage to B-movie actress Evelyn Gould was fodder for the local gossip columnists, but few knew that the most interesting thing about him was not the new car he’d been driving about town but rather the odd mental powers he possessed, enabling him to face down the hordes of hell itself on occasion.

The Peregrine landed atop the Fox Theatre, moving to peer over the roof. Peachtree Street was buzzing at this hour of night, which was just past nine p.m. Max spotted Floyd outside the hotel across the street, looking fidgety and nervous. Floyd was a rail-thin man with a dark moustache and wide-set eyes. He wore a heavy overcoat and hat, his breath coming out in little clouds from his mouth as he breathed.

Max thought about rushing him now, pulling him into an alleyway and giving him the Peregrine’s mark. Such a thing would brand him for life, leaving the image of a bird in flight on his forehead. It was an alternative to murder and one that the Peregrine had increasingly come to favor in recent years. Once marked, Floyd would never be free, not even when the courts were done with him. Like his victims, he would carry the burden of memory with him to the grave.

Before Max could make his move, a fellow approached Floyd and engaged him in conversation. The Peregrine reached into one of his coat pockets and retrieved a small metal case. Flipping open the lid, he reached into a liquid solution to pull out two small lenses that he slipped over his eyes. Based in part on the work done by optometrist William Feinbloom, the lenses were a combination of glass and plastic. While Feinbloom’s lenses were meant to correct eye deficiencies, the Peregrine’s redesigned equipment functioned like telescopic devices, enhancing the range of human sight considerably.